Page:The moods of Ginger Mick.djvu/34

'E chews it over solid fer a bit,
  Workin' 'is copper-top a double shift.
I don't need specs to see that 'e wus 'it
  Be somethin' more than Rosie's little rift.
"If they'd done that," 'e sez, "out 'ere—Ar, rats!
Why don't ole England belt 'em in the slats?"

Then Mick gits up an' starts another fag.
  "Ar, well," 'e sez, "it's no affair uv mine,
If I don't work they'd pinch me on the vag;
  But I'm not keen to fight so toffs kin dine
On pickled olives . . . Blarst the flamin' war!
I ain't got nothin' worth the fightin' for.

"So long," 'e sez. "I got ter trade me stock;
  An' when yeh 'ear I've took a soljer's job
I give yeh leave to say I've done me block
  An' got a flock uv weevils in me knob."
An' then, orf-'anded-like, 'e arsts me: "Say,
Wot are they slingin' soljers fer their pay?"

I tells 'im; an' 'e sez to me, "So long.
  Some day this rabbit trade will git me beat."
An' Ginger Mick shoves thro' the markit throng.
  An' gits 'is barrer out into the street.
An', as 'e goes, I 'ears 'is gentle roar:
"Rabbee! Wile Rabbee! ... Blarst the flamin' war!"